


there and back again

by softestpink



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, F/F, First Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Immortality, Language of Flowers, Magic, Multi, Pendragon Drama- Everything a Goddamn Ordeal In Area Family, ROMANCE (the caps are so necessary), Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 15:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17810507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpink/pseuds/softestpink
Summary: Forever, forever, forever. The word means so much more to them than anyone else, and still- still Morgana will keep her heart for as long as time stretches. It’s a promise she’ll never break.





	there and back again

**Author's Note:**

> yeah that's right in the year 2019 i am back on my gwen/morgana bullshit

**_look at spirit_ **

**_how it fuses with earth_ **

**_giving it new life_ **

 

Reincarnation is a tricky business. None of them ever know exactly how they’ll look and walk and talk. Take Arthur and Morgana for instance. They’re born as twins in the late 1600s. Morgana doesn’t like to think about it. Then there’s the issue of distance, of course. Quite often they’ll land on the same continent, the same country even, but they can never be sure. Sometimes they lose time. One of them might skip a generation. One of them might not be found. It isn’t an exact science, this phenomenon. Generally, they all end up together one way or another. There’s a pull, an old kind of magic that can’t be shaken for long, but every once in a while nature wills their separation so.

 

Merlin is almost always that same unsettlingly alert boy with ears sticking out from his head like fleshy caution signs. Arthur’s form changes the most, they think. He’s been every sort of peasant to pauper- from beggar to boy king. He’s been strong and weedy and whip-smart and dumb as a rock with so many faces they’ve lost count. Merlin jokes that it’s because Arthur’s compensating for something. Morgana thinks it’s because even when they were little, Arthur never knew what he wanted. Gwen just wants him to be content for once. Admittedly, she doesn’t ruminate on his lives or Merlin’s as often as she does on Morgana.  

 

There’s a different kind of history there.    

 

 **363 B.C.E.** _Abydos, Byzantium_ -

 

Before she is Gwenhwyfar or Guanhumara or Guinivere sitting on a golden throne next to a bear-king, she is Aneesha and all the gold she’s seen is that which her father handles at the docks. She’s quiet and stays out of trouble, but knows when to pay attention and when to pick a fight. Everyone that stays at shore long enough knows not to mess with the old Moor’s daughter, but sometimes she must be quick-witted to avoid cruel men.

 

“Such beauty will only see more suitors” old Eutychus tells her. She ignores his counter at market, wears plain dresses, and goes about her business. Aneesha keeps herself hidden mostly and only goes to watch the water when the moon is high in the night sky and all of the vendors and fishermen are asleep in their beds.

 

She meets someone unfamiliarly familiar on such a night.

 

What boats are allowed in the docks are only allowed in the day, Aneesha knows, but there is a small one drifting towards the pier. The wood is unpainted, unpolished, and carved into sharp shapes. Her thoughts dart wildly. Is it a vision? Perhaps a visit from a lonely god? She likes to imagine such tales are true. More realistically, will the city undergo another siege like the ones her father recounts every night before he sleeps? Kings, mercenaries, and cruel men all come in the night, he tells her. That is the way of things.

 

She knows how to use the makhaira knife hidden under her dress. She isn’t afraid for herself. She’s afraid for her city. The boat is by the pier now, away from the nets and smaller rafts. Aneesha is too curious for her own good. This is probably how the great coward Iphiades himself came into Abydos and sacked the city.

 

Except.

 

It isn’t an ugly, murderous tyrant that steps onto the shore, but a woman. She’s tall. Her tunic looks Thracian, but her jaw and her skin and the set of her shoulders remind Aneesha of the Gauls that come to trade. It’s rare to see them and Aneesha’s eyes probably bulge out of her head with all of her rude staring.  

 

The woman’s half shaved head, her strange dress that covers so little, and her green eyes are all interesting. She doesn’t look like a mercenary.

 

Later, after embarrassing herself by tripping over a rock and hitting her head, Aneesha learns that she’s right. The Gaul woman isn’t a mercenary. Her name is Cintusmina and her cousin is with her, a broad man that she bickers with and calls Borso. He sword looks seasoned but his face is calm. They have the same nose, Aneesha thinks distantly.

 

Cintusmina is a prophet. Her Sight comes from the gods themselves, according to the two strangers. Something led them to this land, they say. They’re here to find someone. A woman. Aneesha is skeptical. The only time she hears of the gods gifting anything is when she’s at the market in Sestus and greedy Tlepolemus is trying to sell her fabric that ‘the great Anahita herself spun into existence’.

 

“You don’t believe me.” Cintusmina says. Her eyes are green. It is rare to see. Her skin would look sickly if not for the strength in her posture. “You will.”

 

Aneesha thinks she talks like a woman used to getting what she wants.

 

She presses a cloth to the bump on Aneesha’s head. It gentles her thoughts and cools her skin, a blessing. Borso sits guard next to them, pointing out that Cintusmina is well-known even among their people for her stubbornness and bullheaded determination, so Aneesha might as well listen, even if it sounds like nonsense. His hair is slick-looking. He rolls his eyes a lot. She decides that these people are strange, but kind, and the world could always use more kind people.

 

“The Lamiae Tres whisper in my ear. They tell me we will have many journeys together on different feet. Our blessing and curse.”

 

Strange. But Aneesha has met hundreds of people on the docks with claims to have a god whispering this and that in their ears. She cannot say what is and what isn't true for them.

 

Cintusmina walks with Aneesha all the way back to her home. They talk of Gallia Togata, where Cintusmina is from, and of Mycenea and Crete and Kemet and Constantinople. Cintusmina is excited to talk about her homeland most of all and at times her eyes flicker gold and the world seems to fade around her. It isn’t so hard to believe the gods walk with someone like that. Aneesha tells Cintusmina what it’s like to live in a place where everyone passes through. She gets to see so many different people even though she has never been past the Sarosian sea. Macedonians give her father presents for allowing them to pass and she sometimes spends hours poring over beautiful pendants and diadems from across the great waters.

 

“I would take you even if the Lamiae Tres didn’t will it so. I would take you to any land the sun rises over.”

 

Cintusmina says it as easily as an empress and Aneesha has no doubt it is true.

 

“Then take me to Gaul in one month if we are still friends by that time, Cintusmina.”

 

She smiles softly. Aneesha feels faint again but this time her head isn’t struck. Cintusmina stops them in front of her door. She produces a tiny, wooden box from her cloth bag and hands it to Aneesha. It’s just the size of her palm and weighs nothing.

 

“This reminds me of home when I am away. I want you to have it.”

 

Aneesha rattles the box. There is no sound. Upon opening it carefully, she reveals one curled stem dotted in purple flowers. Beautiful. It’s beautiful.

 

“We don’t have these here.” She marvels at it, turning it between her fingers delicately. The petals are so small!

 

“Will you keep it and remember me during the day? My cousin and I will only come at night. It is safer for us.”

 

“Yes.” Aneesha agrees. “I will keep it always.”

 

Unfortunately, Aneesha and Cintusmina do not meet again, for the city of Abydos is prized and set upon by many military strategists and conquerors. Emperors and warmongers know the value of seaports and are unafraid to take a shore village in the night. This is the way of things.

   

Still, when Aneesha’s body is swept out to sea, the box is clutched in her hand.

 

 **_2018 C.E._ ** _Great Britain, British Isles -_

 

She’s in Wales, looking.

 

Ever since she remembered, she’s been looking. God knows she’s got the money to. The hotels are anything but cheap and she’s collected enough old tokens and photographs and clothes of theirs to have some real leads. She keeps Gwen’s wedding ring from the forties on a chain around her neck. It makes sense that at least one of them would come back here.

 

Morgana waits until it’s well past two a.m. to drive to Neath Abbey. Aside from the bundles of flowers ruining her expensive backseat, all she’s brought are two long, white dresses. She wrinkles her nose when she pulls them out carefully. How did she ever think that high-necked frilly collars were fashionable? Gwen’s old dress, however, is lovely even now. Morgana can’t look at it for too long or she’ll start thinking of Gwen walking down the aisle in that ugly, rickety little church and she’ll get emotional.  

 

She starts planting fat white candles in a large circle on the grass. Bushels of lavender are placed to form a smaller circle within. The dresses are laid in the middle of it all and lastly, Morgana twists the old, pearl ring from the fourth finger of her left hand. She lays it between the dresses, along with the ring from around her neck.

 

As far as she knows, Merlin himself has given up on this kind of thing. The ritual is simple enough magic, akin to dowsing more than anything especially taxing, but as with all magic, sometimes the answers they get aren’t what they desire.

 

For instance, if Morgana does this only to find that Gwen’s still floating around the cosmos as energy waiting to be reborn she’s going to feel pissed among many other emotions. She’s had to deal with Arthur and his self-righteous, lionhearted nonsense for all of her twenty six years in this life. She’s also had to deal with Merlin’s guilt and distrust and compassion all overlapping and directed at her for half as long. She’s even had to be raised under Uther’s roof again, which actually almost drove her to patricide when her memories came back. He’s never been in any of her past lives apart from the Golden Age as far as she recalls. She hadn’t even known it was possible. Everything is so similar- so eerily copied. Gwen must be here. She must be.

 

Morgana doesn’t know what she’ll do if she isn’t. It’s been so long.

 

*

 

In Cardiff, Gwen wakes panting. Next to her, Merlin the cat sleeps like the dead. She can’t remember her dream. She thinks she was walking down an isle? She rubs her forehead. Gwen can’t remember lots of things these days. Hair sticks to the back of her sweaty neck. She breathes deep and her left hand shakes. Her ring finger feels heavy and cold.  

 

 **_1933 C.E_ ** _. Louisiana, United States of America_ -

 

Morgana’s touch is the same and entirely new all at once. Her hands have none of the hard calluses from her most recent life as an obsessive sculptor, and littler still of the softness from her life as Uther’s ward. She drags the tips of her fingers up Gwen’s spine, slow and sure, pressing in at each knob until Gwen is shivering and biting her lip. It’s like her dress and the camisole underneath have disappeared.

 

She thinks the curses on her tongue might be Norman French- or maybe it’s the Creole she knows in this life. It’s always like this. Morgana always pushes out the pieces of herself that she’s buried deep. She’s still sorting through the ages and ages of memories. Gwen isn’t meant to remember everything at once but small things eke out in her presence, like every part of her trusts Morgana to know.   

 

“I missed you.” Morgana always says in whatever way she can. There was the time she’d had her tongue clipped in the 1560s, punishment for the open practice of witchcraft. Sometimes she still has trouble with words. It’s fine. Gwen can always understand. And anyway, the universe knows that nothing can stop a Pendragon with something to say.

 

“I always miss you, too.” Gwen whispers, bouncing up onto the balls of her feet. The grimy brick behind her is probably ruining her dress. It’s true. In all her lives, no matter how fulfilling, there’s always a bit of an ache. It’s much more manageable than it used to be. Gwen remembers bits of her first life- or is it her second- when the loss of Morgana was something especially new. Raw like a bullet to the stomach. Aching. A reverberating thing.

 

For a moment Morgana only feels at the softness of her, thumbing over Gwen’s cheek with a slight smile. She’s quite tactile in this era. Gwen can’t remember if that’s usual or not. Her hair is done up smart with perfect waves and gleaming silver pins, looking like she’s got more money than anyone in this backwater town could ever dream of.

 

She’d rolled into Breaux Bridge, Louisiana looking like a million bucks, all her daddy’s money obvious in the way she walked and wore her dress and smoked her fancy cigarettes from Paris. Of course Gwen had seen her, shining like a silver-green medal in the middle of Mister Claflin’s sweets shop. Who could miss a woman that looked the way Morgana did? She still carried herself regally, even with the sleazy winks and double entendres falling out of her mouth. She looked the same as ever and different at once. She’d taken one look at Gwen, the kind of look nobody else has ever been able to give her, and immediately declared to the shopkeep she’d be having a walk with a friend and to ‘keep the change, daddy-o’.

 

Gwen tried to scurry out before she could catch up, but Morgana’s always had longer legs. They’d made a funny sight, chasing each other down the block, but Gwen had been worried. Folks had to see this rich white woman high-tailing it down the concrete just to catch her, but more importantly-

 

“Do you even remember me?” she’d broken down and asked when Morgana finally cornered her in an alleyway, because that happens too. Even if their minds haven’t caught up, they are always drawn to each other.  

 

Gwen turns her face into Morgana’s hand now.

 

“Really? You must think I’m running into alleys with half the birds in Louisiana.” Morgana rolls her eyes. “Ridiculous. How could I forget this face? These eyes. Your eyes are always the same, Guinevere.”

 

Gwen blinks heavily and too many times. She’s not going to cry. She’s not. Morgana’s crowded up against her still, like two women getting this close won’t draw any attention. She’s brazen as hell. That’s her Morgana.  

 

“What’s my favorite flower?” She asks to be sure. Morgana pauses. Her sharp brows come together when she’s thinking hard.

 

“Lavender. You used to pick them for me to cheer me up. You did it so often, your fingers would smell of mint. I gave you a sprig from my homeland when we first met.”

 

Gwen thinks her cheeks could split from all the smiling she’s doing now. She really remembers. Morgana picks up her wrists, kisses the backs of her hands, and noses at the tips of fingers. It should be embarrassing but it just settles Gwen in her skin. She remembers it all.

 

“You wanna know what my mama named me in this life? You’re gonna laugh.” Gwen warns, groaning and covering her eyes. She nudges a rock near her ankle into a little puddle. Morgana smiles gleefully.

 

“Well, you’ve gotta tell me now. C’mon, doll.” She nudges Gwen’s cheek and then smooths her other hand up Gwen’s back, tickling the small, curly hairs on the nape of her neck. Gwen’s laugh is a loud, precious squawk that Morgana drinks up like fine hooch.

 

When they kiss under Morgana’s broad, fine hat Gwen has to push it up a little. Morgana would make all of the ladies at Gwen’s church jealous.  

 

“Fine.” She says when she’s pulled back and still a little dazed. “But if you laugh at me Miss Pendragon, I’m walking outta here and taking all my kisses with me.”

 

“It’s Bordeaux in this life, peach.”

 

“No laughing then, Miss Bordeaux.”  

 

Morgana smirks and makes the sign of the cross because she never did take Jesus into her heart and consequently has got no problem lying on the name of the Lord. Gwen knows it. She admits it anyway.

 

“I was born Ernestine Mae.”

 

Morgana’s eyes widen until they’re likely to pop out of her head and she nods and nods and tries to pretend she isn’t guffawing already.

 

“Ernestine Mae.” She says, ruminating. “....Ernestine.. Mae.”

 

Gwen rolls her eyes and giggles because it’s contagious and Morgana’s shoulders knock into hers when they shake in mirth. She’s cracking up and trying to pretend she isn’t, dabbing at her lashes like a sophisticated woman that’s been overcome.

 

“Ugh, yes. I only had it changed just two years ago when I moved out here.”

 

“Isn’t it strange?” Morgana sighs and plays with an errant curl on Gwen’s shoulder. “Having so many names? Funny enough, I was born to a couple of erudites, totally obsessed with the old stories. You’ll think I’m razzing you, but I swear it’s the God’s honest truth.”

 

“Come on, let it slip then.”

 

“They named me Mithian.”

 

Gwen gasps and laughs until tears bead up at the corners of her eyes and her stomach hurts.

 

“Oh my. You know, she would have loved that.”

 

Morgana makes a face.

 

“Alright, maybe not.” Gwen admits. She feels brazen too now and steps a little closer if that’s possible. Morgana has that effect.

 

“But I love it. I always love your names. Come home with me?”

 

Morgana smiles dangerously.

 

“No question. I’d be on my knees right here if you wanted, darling. Do you remember that time in Crete?”

 

Gwen swats her on the shoulder, scandalized. Morgana’s too much. She can’t stop the heat from crawling up her spine when the memory comes in flashes. Morgana pushing her thighs apart. Morgana looking up at her while Gwen stuffed her own mouth with the fabric of her dress. Morgana keeping her from falling over.  

 

When they walk onto the street again, arm in arm, eyes wandering over each other like newlyweds, everyone watches. Neither of them care.

 

 **_2018 C.E._ ** _Great Britain, The British Isles-_

 

“You knew. You knew she was back. I felt your magic in the room with her.” Morgana doesn’t waste any time rounding in on Merlin when she finds him. He and Arthur are in their tiny flat, eyes still sleep-crusted as they dig in to their breakfast plates. He doesn’t even bother playing stupid. Instead Merlin sighs and pulls out a chair for her and across the table, Arthur looks too distressed to be an innocent bystander.

 

“You knew too.” She accuses. Arthur nods, rubbing the back of his neck. She could kill the both of them. “You both knew I was looking for her and you kept me in the dark while-”

 

“Morgana.” Merlin says quietly.

 

Oh. She’s giving the table quite a rattle. Salt has spilled onto Arthur’s plate from the overturned shaker. Napkins lie spread like a collapsed house of cards. Their coffees are a lost cause. She blinks and leans back, calming herself. A couple of centuries ago she would have stabbed one of them by now. She figures this is growth.

 

“Tell me everything. Now.”

 

Merlin starts right away. The guilt has probably been eating him up. Well, good.

 

“We only met her two months ago.”

 

“Only.” Morgana scoffs, then shuts up so that he can go on. He looks particularly sorry, not that it helps.

 

“We were taking Mum to the ballet- well Arthur was taking her.” He self-corrects. “Some of us have real jobs and work to pay off this extravagant lifestyle.”

 

He looks sheepish. Arthur rolls his eyes.

 

“We’re over five thousand years old. You move things with your bloody mind. Dozens of novels speculate on how wizened and powerful you are. Please get over the money thing.”

 

Merlin’s eyes narrow and he looks as if he’s going to launch into a tangent about how earthly pleasures can’t just be taken just because they’re in a cycle of rebirth and how The Balance will be affected if they alter time and choice are in a constant push-pull and blah blah blah. Morgana snaps her fingers in front of them. Even if she wasn’t angry enough to lob them across the earth, she’s already been recited that lesson enough.

 

“Focus. Why didn’t you tell me about Gwen?”

 

Arthur takes a deep breath.

 

“The situation is delic-”

 

“She can’t remember, Morgana.” Merlin says, cutting to the chase. Morgana freezes.

 

“What do you mean she can’t remember? Is she sick?”

 

They all recall when Merlin came down with influenza in 1844 and couldn’t recount the day’s events let alone the centuries of memories repressed in his mind. Merlin fidgets now.

 

“Right, well she isn’t in the way that you’re thinking. She was remembering before. We met her at the show- she’s in the Royal Ballet can you believe it? Anyway, we met her and she was remembering. Made a joke about how she’s not used to the way people don’t call her ‘majesty’ anymore. She asked where you were but-”

 

“I was with Leon.” Morgana realizes, remembering now. “It was August. We were looking for his father’s old sword in Normandy.”

 

Arthur’s wearing his ‘we are so fucking odd’ face as he eats. Sometimes the lot of them forget their age.  

 

“Yes, we were gonna surprise you.” He starts shoving food into his mouth again because Merlin wasn’t raised with Arthur and her and consequently has zero table manners.

 

“‘Cept a couple weeks before you got back, there was an accident.”  Morgana’s heart seizes.

 

“What sort of accident?” She asks carefully.

 

“She hit her head.” Arthur says quietly. He looks as though he wants to come across the table and hug her. She doesn’t know what she’d do if he did.

 

“No one saw it coming. There was a malfunction with one of the stage lights during a recital. About a third of the bloody corps got injured, but Gwen got the worst of it. Bludgeoned her right in the back of the head. I didn’t- I was talking to Mum about fucking zagnut bars when it happened. I should’ve caught it.”

 

Morgana can see it in her mind. She’s watched it happen before. When the papal knights cut off her hands in 1144 for the practice of idol worship and made Gwen watch. In 1944, just after their anniversary, when a group of men in hoods came and burned Gwen’s back while Morgana was out at the shop. She thinks of a 21st century Gwen lying in a coma in a cold fucking miserable hospital with tubes stuffed into her body because she can’t eat and can’t move and can’t think. Totally alone. Morgana can feel the magic spiking to her fingertips, barely restrained. Merlin’s going to need a new table at this rate. She closes her eyes and takes a moment to regain control.

 

“You’re right.” she tells Merlin. “You should’ve.”

 

Arthur’s jaw clenches and he straightens, looking solemn and much like his older self.

 

“That isn’t fair, Morgana.”

 

Merlin shakes his head and holds up a hand. “She’s right.”

 

“Where is she now?” Morgana will go wherever she is. It doesn’t matter if she’ll never wake again. Morgana needs to be there.

 

“You just missed her, actually.” Arthur says, picking up his plate and taking it to the sink.

 

“What?” Morgana knows her frown makes her look like a petulant child. At least Uther tells her so.

 

“She just left for practice. She spends every day at the studio. She’s a principal dancer, you know.” Arthur says proudly.

 

“You don’t even know what that means.” Merlin points out. Morgana ignores them. Gwen got the worst of the bludgeoning. She isn’t in a coma or bedridden, but she can’t remember the old lives.

 

“Merlin, does Gwen have amnesia?”

 

He pauses in the middle of bickering to nod slowly.

 

“How bad?”

 

“She can form new memories, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s the old ones that didn’t quite make it. She- she can’t remember things from this life so well. She has muscle memory, I think. She’s got to, to still be doing so well with the company.”

 

Morgana inhales and rubs her forehead. On the one hand, she’s thanking the powers that Be that Gwen isn’t a vegetable. But-

 

“She doesn’t remember things from this life, you said. How long has it been since the accident?”

 

“A month this Tuesday.” Arthur answers.

 

“It’s been a month and she can’t- if she can’t even remember this one, she won’t remember the others. She won’t remember me.”

 

Arthur and Merlin exchange a glance.

 

“You can always make new memories.” Merlin starts placatingly. Morgana is busy staring down at her left hand.

 

“We were married. She won’t remember that. Did you know she proposed the first time, but I’ve done it in every life since?” She mumbles. Nothing makes sense. In all of their lives she’s taken it for granted. Gwen’s never permanently forgotten before. “Well. Almost every life. She got the drop on me once, in 1722.”

 

Her fingers feel numb. It’s just odd, she thinks, holding all of this in your head, alone.

 

She understands now how Arthur must’ve felt in the 1850’s. He must know that’s what she’s thinking of because he comes to where she’s still sitting and lays a hand on her shoulder.

 

“It’s hard. At first. But she’s still Gwen. She’s still herself.”

 

Morgana goes home that night and drinks. She drinks a lot. And then she buys a ticket to a production of Swan Lake presented by the Royal Ballet featuring Guinevere Raines as Odile, the white swan.

 

**_look at love_ **

**_how it tangles_ **

**_with the one fallen in love_ **

  


The dress she wears to see her wife for the first time in 68 years is deep, dark red- the colour of black cherries. The colour of blood. It’s tailored, high-necked, and too authentically restrictive to be from this era. Morgana thinks it’s appropriate. She’ll be curtailing more than just her ability to breathe comfortably tonight. Arthur takes one look at her get-up, rolls his eyes, and says “Is that a veil? God, you’re dramatic.”

 

She smiles at him before she leaves, wicked and theatrical. Gwen’s always loved her in darker colours.

 

Morgana’s seen Swan Lake before, but once she settles into her seat in the theatre, the entire production is almost illusory. She recalls only going to the ballet twice with her family in the early eighteen hundreds, before she remembered herself. Her feet hadn’t touched the ground yet when she sat and the dancers had all been visibly sweaty. This is different.

 

The theatre’s much larger, for one. The music is grand- there are more instruments incorporated than she thought. The dancers have more intricate costumes and she’s too far away to see any sweat. There’s a handsome prince doing a lot of jumps. She can distantly appreciate the beauty of all this, even if the bodice of her dress is starting to dig into her ribs. She hasn’t worn one of these fucking things in so long and it shows, she thinks, gritting her teeth. For the entire first scene, she’s more occupied with the idea of destroying her outfit than watching the performance.

 

Everything changes after the first scene. The curtain opens on mist. A starry background. The music turns softer and what Merlin would call more romantic. The prince has a crossbow now and there’s a monster, something terrifyingly horned and draped in black that Morgana likes instinctively. She leans in, interested. She does love a story. There is a hunt, because there is a prince and she knows from dying and being born again too many times to count that princes do love their hunting. And then there- there is the white swan.

 

At first, she thinks it’s a trick of the light, but no. It’s her wife of lifetimes. Obviously, Morgana bought the ticket. She knew it would be Gwen. Her heart seizes all the same anyway. Her ribs feel crushed now and it’s nothing to do with her dress.

 

Morgana can’t breathe.

 

Gwen is perfect. Radiant. It has nothing to do with how her hair bounces when she jumps or the fake diamonds that shimmer in it or the way her tutu billows when she twirls on her toes. It’s just- her. That’s her Guinevere. Gwenhyfar. Aneesha. Ernestine Mae. Isetemkheb. Henhenet. Philomena. Habibah. She is the same and not.

 

They used to cut their hair in the thirties. Short little pixie cuts. Pinning up long hair if you had it. That was all the rage.

 

Gwen’s hair is longer. It isn’t down her back, like the golden ages, but it’s enough that Morgana can remember what it was like to play in it. To get some of it in her mouth when they spooned. To braid it when they sat on the porch together because it was too hot to be inside.

 

Her smile is the same. It still brings out the dimples in her cheeks. Her skin is darker. It looks the way it does when they’ve been laying out on the beach together. They did that once in ‘45.     

 

Most importantly, her eyes. They’re the same. They’re always the same. Gwen always looks like she could power this world on hope and sweet intention alone. She has the eyes of a saint that would beat everyone into kindness and good will with a hammer if she had to. Morgana doesn’t know how one person can be that tender and that tough at once.

 

Watching her feels like a fever dream. Morgana would know. She’d caught the American plague in the late 1700s, before they knew what it was. She has all of the delirium now and none of the pain. Gwen stretches her arms to their limits, balances on her toes while she’s dipped in half and makes it look effortless. Her face is caught in rapture. Even looking at her expression feels too intimate and Morgana nearly cracks the wooden armrests under her hands.

 

The prince is obviously lovesick. Morgana doesn’t have to imagine what that’s like. The horned monster advances on Gwen even as she dances with her prince, and when one clawed hand covers the back of her glittering head, Morgana imagines a stage light smacking her down with a sick thud. She swallows. The monster carries her away. The prince is alone.

 

Intermission is perfect. It gives Morgana the opportunity to go to the washroom and have her panic attack without an audience.

 

When she returns to her chair, Morgana’s perfectly composed. Centuries of wealth and polite upbringing have made her a pro at presenting herself as flawless. Nothing’s changed.  

 

If watching Gwen as Odette was captivating, then watching her as Odile is thrilling. Gwen has never been naturally inclined to darker colors the way Morgana is, so it’s rare to see her like this. She races around in black lipstick and red plummage underneath her midnight tutu and a wicked smile that make Morgana think of nights in their New Orleans house and peeling stockings down Gwen’s legs.

 

She moves differently in her new costume. She plays with the prince, forceful- teasing. Odile slinks into his space as if she owns him, nothing like the timid Odette. Morgana can’t blame him for dropping to his knees in the middle of a ball when Gwen twists around him like it’s foreplay.

 

Morgana didn’t know ballet could be this sexual. The difference between Odette and Odile is stark, yet Morgana never forgets that it’s Gwen playing both roles. She’s always carried multitudes.

 

By the end of the production, Morgana is in tears. It’s embarrassing and she’s glad for her veil and the absence of her friends that would absolutely take the piss out of her if they knew she was at the ballet in the first place. Although, one deserves a pass after watching their soulmate perform a passionate death scene. It’s too reminiscent of her first passing, she thinks.

 

Gwen’s applause is thunderous and deserved in Morgana’s opinion. People throw money. People throw flowers. Morgana vows that next time she’ll bring a bouquet of her own. Lavender.

 

She’s in a taxi on the way home before she realizes that she’s decided to come again.

 

 **_1935 C.E._ ** _Louisiana, United States of America_ -

 

“My God, silly woman what have you done?” Gwen says, with a hand on her hip. Morgana may have gone overboard with the candles but the exasperated smile on Gwen’s face tells her it was worth every minute of being on her knees in the grass.

 

Their yard is transformed. Morgana’s money had bought them a quaint little house on the edge of town awhile back, but more importantly it bought Gwen enough land to garden the way she likes. Usually her giant cauliflowers are the eyecatchers on the scene. Right now though, Morgana’s got ‘em beat. The yard’s lit up like Christmas, with great candles strewn across the ground and littering the back porch. She was careful about keeping the planting rows clear and staying away from the shed of Gwen’s tools. Lord knows Gwen would’ve bitten her head off about it.

 

“I wanted to do something special.”

 

Morgana snaps her fingers and the candles flare purple. Gwen’s favorite color. She’s careful about her magic and she knows it makes Gwen anxious, but they’re home and safe. She can show off a bit. Gwen stares.

 

“Well, I think you just took ‘special’ and gave it the royal upgrade.”

 

“As I’m known to.”

 

They settle into their swing. The sun hasn’t set yet but the both of them can tell it’s coming with the way the sky’s yawning pink. Morgana leans her head on Gwen’s shoulder and takes a deep breath.

 

“You know you’re my forever girl.”

 

She doesn’t have to look to know Gwen’s already frowning, trying to figure out what Morgana’s up to.

 

“I better be.” She laughs. “Or were you planning on stepping out on me, Miss Mithian?”

 

Morgana rolls her eyes. ‘Stepping out’. That ain’t nothing short of a joke. They both know there’s not another woman on this Earth that could handle her.  

 

“Anyway,” Morgana continues snottily. “as I was saying- you know you’re it for me. For always. And I know I’ve given you rings before. I know our last marriage didn’t end well.”

 

Gwen freezes at the mention, but Morgana keeps going.

 

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. Lord knows the one thing us four get is time, and I’m not looking to start that argument again. I’m sorry- not sorry for what I did, but I’m sorry it made you take off that ring. I’m sorry I hurt us.”

 

Morgana fishes out a tiny box from where it’s tucked in her garter.

 

“I know you might be hesitant to start another marriage with me. But I got you this ring, Guinevere. You don’t have to say yes. You don’t have to put it on. We can stay in this house together for the rest of our lives without you wearing this ring and I’ll love you just the same.”

 

The sky is draining into a dark orange now, with faint purples and pinks still visible. The flames in the candles around them jump nervously. She hasn’t been anxious about this question in so long, it makes Morgana feel giddy. She opens the box steadily, though.  

 

“I wanna marry you, Ernestine Mae. Aneesha. Gwynnhyfar. I want to go into a church with you for the fifth time and stand in front of the Powers That Be and be named yours. Do you want that?”  


Gwen is crying. She’s doing the thing where she tries to pretend she isn’t crying by blinking fast but she’s crying. The way she’s gulping air like a fish on land is a dead giveaway.

 

“If you don’t put that ring on my finger right now,” Gwen enunciates clearly. “I’ll- I’ll smear dirt over all your fancy New York dresses. I’m- yes. I’ll marry you. I’ll marry you, wife.”

 

The swing rocks violently when Gwen sits up and catches Morgana’s cheeks, dropping wet kisses on her chin and her cheeks and eyelids and temples and hair. Morgana can’t even put the ring on her finger, she’s moving so fast.

 

“Oh, I can’t believe you sprung that on me, crafty witch!”

 

Morgana laughs her terrible shrieking laugh as Gwen tries to crawl all over her in a seat that’s not fit to be rocking so quickly. Gwen’s about to tumble them both onto the deck if she doesn’t calm down, but Morgana’s not going to tell her so.

 

“Ah,” Gwen sighs into her cheek. “You always promise me the world, every time. When are you gonna learn I only want you?” 


End file.
